‘… the ground-floor window had already been forced open. Mitch Maxwell could have walked through the front door.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t want to be seen,’ says Donna. ‘By the way, no way you’d have fitted through that window before you lost weight. See the trouble it’s caused you.’
‘If I might venture an opinion?’ says Joyce. ‘When Ibrahim and I went to visit Samantha Barnes, in Petworth – Bob, have you ever been to Petworth?’
‘Uh, no,’ says Bob.
‘You must,’ says Joyce. ‘It’s very pretty, and not too busy on weekdays, we had the run of the place. And, if you do go, there’s a lovely café just by –’
‘You were venturing an opinion, Joyce?’ says Elizabeth.
‘Oh, yes,’ says Joyce. ‘For goodness’ sake, Alan, you’ve seen shoes before, sorry, Bob. Yes, when we mentioned the name Dom Holt to Samantha Barnes, and to her husband …’
‘Garth,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Almost certainly Canadian.’
‘… they both swore they’d never heard it before, but they were lying, weren’t they, Ibrahim?’
‘They were,’ agrees Ibrahim.
‘How can you tell for sure?’ asks Donna.
‘I just can,’ says Joyce. ‘Just like I know you and Bogdan didn’t come here from an art exhibition. But we can discuss that later.’
‘Where did you come from?’ asks Chris.
‘We went to the football,’ says Bogdan.
‘The Everton match?’ Chris asks.
‘I didn’t pay attention to the teams,’ says Donna. ‘Maybe.’
‘Meet anyone interesting there?’
‘So Mitch Maxwell, and Samantha Barnes and her Canadian, might have killed him,’ interrupts Elizabeth. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Whoever Mitch Maxwell was selling the heroin to,’ says Donna. ‘That’s an even bigger motive, surely?’
Joyce nods. ‘That’s why we took the photos of the files. I hope I did the right thing, Elizabeth?’
‘You did the right thing, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth.
Joyce rises an inch in height. ‘So, Bob, could you scroll through to the photographs we took of the files? You’ll have to go through quite a few close-ups of the bullet wound, I’m afraid.’
Bob scrolls through at speed, until the first file appears.
‘And somewhere in here I’m betting we can find out exactly who he sells to,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Thanks to Joyce.’
‘I helped too,’ says Ron.
‘He did,’ says Joyce. ‘He wept.’
‘Well done, Ron,’ says Elizabeth, and Ron also rises an inch in height.
‘Shall I make some tea, perhaps?’ suggests Joyce. ‘We have a long evening ahead of us.’
‘Let me make it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘It seems everyone else has a job.’
‘The files appear to be written in code, Ibrahim,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You will be invaluable in cracking it. I’ll make the tea.’
Ron and Joyce share a look. This is certainly a first.
‘I’m not sure I have nine mugs though,’ says Joyce.
‘I don’t have to stay,’ volunteers Bob, but is met with cries of ‘Stay, stay,’ and Alan, curled up at his feet, seals the deal.
‘I’ll get mugs from Elizabeth’s,’ says Bogdan. ‘And say hi to Stephen when I’m there.’
Elizabeth squeezes Bogdan’s hand before heading to the kitchen.
Bogdan doesn’t much like snow. In his long experience, only two types of people do like snow. People who don’t see much of it, like the British, or people who live near mountains. In Poland he saw an awful lot of snow, but nobody was skiing. So what was in it for him?
He lets himself into Elizabeth and Stephen’s flat. The sitting-room light is on, so Bogdan enters. Stephen is standing at the window, staring out into the snowy darkness.
‘Stephen,’ says Bogdan, ‘is me.’
‘Old chap,’ says Stephen. ‘Something queer is afoot.’
‘OK,’ says Bogdan. ‘You want a cup of tea? You want a whisky? Watch TV?’
‘I know you,’ says Stephen. ‘We’ve spoken.’
‘I am your friend,’ says Bogdan. ‘You are my friend. We went for a drive the other day.’
‘Thought as much,’ says Stephen. ‘If I tell you something, you won’t think I’m off my rocker?’
‘Off your rocker?’ This is a new one on Bogdan.
‘Off my rocker,’ says Stephen, suddenly irritated. He has never been irritated with Bogdan before. ‘Doolally, round the twist, for goodness’ sake.’
‘You are on your rocker,’ says Bogdan, hoping that’s an expression.
‘Only,’ says Stephen, ‘there’s a fox, who comes to see me.’
‘Snowy?’
‘Snowy, yes,’ says Stephen. ‘You know him? Chap with the ears?’
‘I know him,’ says Bogdan. ‘He is a fine fox.’
‘He hasn’t been this evening,’ says Stephen.
‘Is the snow,’ says Bogdan. ‘He’s keeping warm somewhere.’
‘Nonsense,’ says Stephen. ‘A fox doesn’t mind a bit of snow. A fox doesn’t mind a bit of anything. Don’t you know anything about foxes?’
‘Not really,’ says Bogdan.
‘Well, take the word of a man who does. Where is he?’
‘Did you miss him maybe?’ Bogdan asks.
‘I never miss him,’ says Stephen. ‘You ask my wife, she’s knocking about somewhere. I never miss him. We never miss each other.’
‘You want I should go and look?’
‘I think we should look together,’ says Stephen. ‘I don’t mind telling you I’m worried. You have a torch?’
‘Yes,’ says Bogdan.
‘And we’re pals? Good pals?’
Bogdan nods.
‘Was I short with you?’ Stephen asks. ‘I feel like I was quite short, and I didn’t mean to be. I wasn’t expecting you, you see, and we don’t have anything in.’
